Risk
by Spark Writer
Summary: It doesn't make sense, so John googles it. "An infatuation lasts an average of 4 months. Once it's exceeded that, you're already in love." A curse—soft, albeit heartfelt—escapes him. He puts his head in his palms; exhales.


_(A/N): Alright, just one more Johnlock one-shot... :) Leave a comment on your way out. I'll adore you forever._

_..._

Sometimes I'm terrified  
of my heart; of its  
constant hunger for  
whatever it is it wants.  
The way it stops and  
starts.

- Edgar Allen Poe

...

**day 374.**

"Fine," Sherlock snaps, pushing himself back from the table and rising so quickly his teacup rattles. "You win."

He storms off to his room, leaving Colonel Mustard with one foot in the kitchen and one in the hall, rifle poised.

Dazed, John laughs at the ceiling.

**day 380.**

They're not at the National Gallery to browse. Sherlock has said this at least eight times. Still, John finds himself in front of Degas, mesmerized by the young dancers rendered so gleamingly exact. He exhales and runs his tongue thoughtfully along his cracked lower lip. "Got something to go on?" he inquires a minute later, upon Sherlock's return.

"Not really. The curator's memory is clearly unreliable; I'll have to try again tomorrow." Sherlock glances up at the painting and glares at it halfheartedly. "Impressionist rot," he growls.

John shrugs. "I think it's beautiful."

"You always say that."

"Yes, well." John flicks his collar against a sudden draft. "When you stop trying to analyse things into oblivion you're able to appreciate the whole picture. As it were." He stares resolvedly at *_The Dance Class_, ignorant of his companion's venerating gaze. "You ought to try it more often."

Sherlock does not reply directly to his remark, but says instead, "Enough, let's go home. This ennui is crippling."

"Mad bugger," sighs John, fishing in his pocket for the fold-up brolly.

They walk back to Baker Street in gratuitous rain.

**day 381.**

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it all to _hell_!" Sherlock throws an olive green file on the kitchen floor and dumps the remains of last night's dinner over it. Bits of chicken fried rice and broccoli roll under the stove.

"What the hell," groans John, stumbling downstairs with eyes crusty from sleep. "It's three in the fucking morning."

"Lestrade gave me the wrong information! John, this is outrageous," Sherlock adds, when his flatmate's only response is a bitter glower. "How am I supposed to glean anything from this case if he won't fill out the forms properly—"

John holds up a hand. "You know what?" He steps out of the shadows of the stairwell, jaw tight. "I'm going back to sleep. And when I come downstairs in four hours I'm going to pretend this never happened, because if I don't, I may murder you with bare and bloody hands."

Sherlock snorts.

"Don't. I'm deadly serious." John turns and stares longingly back up the flight of steps. "You know better than to wake an ex-army doctor like this. Prat."

He ascends the stairs and closes his door firmly behind him.

In the morning, Sherlock is making eggy bread and bacon. John accepts the proffered plateful with a small smile.

"What?" asks Sherlock, thrown by John's expression.

John drags the tines of his fork through the slick of bacon grease. "Remarkable." He cuts off a piece of bread, pops it his mouth. Chews.

The chef's cheeks colour.

He settles himself behind _The Daily Gazette_ with haste.

**day 392.**

Her name is Genevieve and she has sharply defined collar bones and a waist that looks as if it could snap in a strong wind. John is distracted by her lovely, her inconvenient, her sparkling brown eyes. His smile widens, he reaches out to steady her when her stilettos wobble.

"Coffee?" she queries.

"Love some."

And then, and then, out of the complete fucking blue, Sherlock strides up with his Belstaff billowing and lays his hand on John's right shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh.

"What are you doing?" John tries wriggling out from under his grip.

"You're assistance is required. His assistance is required," he repeats to Genevieve, as though she is hard of hearing or otherwise mentally stunted.

"Oh," she says, disappointed. "I see."

John is glaring daggers at Sherlock, frustration twisting his stomach. "I've got your number," he reminds her, lamely, as though that will soften the blow.

"Yes," she concedes, tone icy. "Well, see you. Good luck with whatever it is you're needed for."

John watches her walk away, seething. "Sherlock," he hisses, as soon as she's safely out of earshot, "You complete sodding prick, why do you always have to swoop in at the most inopportune moments? I don't know if this has fully occurred to you, but some of us don't actually have the libido of ninety-year old; some of us are trying get la—"

Sherlock instantly removes his hand from John's arm. It falls to his side. "We're needed at the Yard," he says dully. "It would be enormously convenient if you'd save your tantrum for later and help me hail a cab."

John swallows, averting his eyes. "Fine, just— Fine."

"This is what you really want, anyway. Intercourse won't satisfy this craving."

"What craving?" John spits, aggravated.

"You are firmly dependent on danger, John. You need your fix, 'else you'll go mad."

The retort dies in his mouth. Sherlock is dead-on. _Semper eadem_.

**day 398.**

Bile spatters the bottom of the bucket.

Sherlock gasps, "I detest the flu," and John smooths the riot of dark curls away from the clammy forehead.

"Shhh," he murmurs. "You'll make it worse."

**day 399.**

John cups Sherlock's chin and lowers it enough to allow for a straw to slip between his lips.

"No fizzy drinks."

"I know, I remembered. Just water. Sip it slowly."

"Obvious," says Sherlock, too spent to sound irritated.

The urge completely bypasses John's conscious thought and leads him to act unaware of himself—his free hand slides down the topography of Sherlock's jaw and onto the stubble-roughened expanse of neck. His thumbs moves, tracing lazy circles over the pulse that beats just beneath the skin. Sherlock inhales, carotid shivering. An intangible element has pulled taut between them, making John hot with anxiety, but also with another component, with [?]

"_Uhhh_." On Sherlock's exhale, John steps carefully out of range.

He bites his lip. "Tea," he declares, and absconds for the kitchen.

**day 401.**

"I've never liked the dark," Sherlock remarks, and of course they are pressed chest to chest between a skip and a brick wall in almost total darkness when he decides to make this proclamation.

"Well, this _is_ a turn-up," John says through gritted teeth. "I thought you weren't afraid of anything."

"Didn't say I was afraid." Sherlock tightens his fingers round John's wrist when a cab cruises slowly past, headlights blinking.

John shifts. "No-one likes the dark."

"You're thinking of men and women who've retained the childish fear of monsters under beds and creepy-crawlies lingering in shadows, etc., etc. I dislike the dark for the opposite reason. It's blank, so unspeakably blank. There's a sheer absence of data."

"A void," says John, and Sherlock says, "Precisely."

**day 405.**

A rut in the road sends their cab lurching. Sherlock's phone shoots off his lap and onto the bare seat cushion between them. John grabs for it first, fingers closing around smooth metal, but the warmth of Sherlock's palm over his own knuckles a half second later sends a stab of adrenaline hurling down his spine.

"Sorry," he mutters, withdrawing his grasp. He looks up, staring fretfully into the rear-view mirror and makes accidental eye contact with Sherlock. Navy meets sea glass; John's heart squirms into his throat.

"Thai or Burmese?" Sherlock asks, belying nothing in his expression.

"Fifteen minutes ago you said you weren't hungry."

"I'm not, but you are."

John has lost his appetite—absurdly inexplicable—but he will not say this aloud. There are many less than ethical deeds he can live with committing, but discouraging Sherlock's attempts at courtesy is not one of them. An unacceptable act, to be sure.

"Well-spotted," he agrees. "Thai."

Sherlock returns the smile, fiddles with his cuffs.

**day 416.**

Mrs Hudson makes the mistake of walking into 221b with a platter of leftover pot roast when John is sitting on the sofa with Sherlock's bony feet pulled into his lap, kneading the sore muscles.

"Oh," she says, falling short. And again, "Oh." As if she's having some grand epiphany.

Sherlock's eyes flick open. "What?"

Mrs Hudson puts the roast carefully down on the table, beaming practically like Father Christmas.

"No," says John, catching on. "No, it's not like that."

"It's alright, dearie," she laughs. "You have the luxury of being honest with me. And," she adds, somewhat insouciantly, "it's not as if anyone else will be surprised."

"_No_," John repeats, emphatic. "We're—he's not my—"

"What am I not?" Sherlock demands and John wants to punch him upside the head, because he's really not following this at _all_. He gives the detective's heel a sharp squeeze.

"Oh," huffs Sherlock finally, echo of Mrs Hudson. "Oh, yes, right."

"Bloody eloquent thing, aren't you?" John growls under his breath. Another squeeze: _fix this_.

"John's right, er, we're not. Romantically involved."

This, quite regrettably, puts an even broader smile on Mrs Hudson's face. She clasps her cheek with one hand, giggling like a teenager. "You two," she chortles. "What a performance. You needn't worry; I won't tell anyone 'till you're ready."

"Mrs Hudson—"

Alas, the door closes behind her, leaving them in perfect silence with the smell of recently warmed beef permeating the flat.

"Shit," John says. "Shit."

"There's no point in trying to correct her," Sherlock observes, unconcerned. "She's already convinced."

"This is a fine mess."

"Inevitable."

Sherlock's already immersed in his reading again, but John's heart drops through his stomach. What the hell does that mean?

He lifts Sherlock's ankles and slides out from beneath. His joints pop and he rises with a wince.

"Where are you going?"

"Bed."

"It's half past nine."

"Don't care. I'm tired."

"Wouldn't be if Linda called."

There's an unnecessary amount of venom in Sherlock's words and John stares down at him, lips pressed into an unforgiving line. "What are you saying?"

"Coitus has a ridiculous amount of power over you."

"You don't know the first thing about that."

"Wrong. You make it laughably easy to perceive, John, because you're so painfully obvious. I see how you rush to get ready when someone from your infinite parade of girlfriends sends you a text."

"What of it?" asks John, disgruntled at this radical change of subject. "I enjoy having sex. That should be of total irrelevance to you."

"It's apparent you are completely blind to how inhibiting it is having you disappear at the drop of a hat, at some female's strange and misguided attempt at flirtation." Sherlock still hasn't taken his eyes off _The Plight of the Honey Bee._

Right. This is bloody well Not Good. "Why is that so sodding inconvenient for you, Sherlock?" barks John, crossing his arms. "What, do you need someone to putter about mopping up your acid spills or hand you your scalpel and tweezers every time you need them so you don't ever have to get off your arse? Is that it?"

"No," Sherlock says sharply.

"What, then?"

"Just go upstairs and leave me in peace. I can barely think with you shouting and carrying on."

"You started it," John retorts, but he's already backing away.

He doesn't get to sleep until a quarter to four.

Sherlock doesn't sleep at all.

**day 418.**

It doesn't make sense, so John googles it.

_An infatuation lasts an average of 4 months. Once it's exceeded that, you're already in love._

A curse—soft, albeit heartfelt—escapes him. He puts his head in his palms; exhales.

**day 425.**

It's stupidly cliché.

They're stuck in a village in Scotland and the inn only has rooms with one bed. Beds large enough for two people, certainly, but not large enough to maintain a chaste strip of space between them. This becomes clear as soon as Sherlock and John ascend the stairs to room number nine and open the door into a cramped suite with a sagging desk, tartan armchair, and there, crouching placidly along the far wall, a bed. Precisely 54 inches across.

"Low thread count, thin mattress," Sherlock deduces, following John's gaze. "Better off sleeping on the floor."

"You do that," says John, dumping his bag on the floor with a mighty thump. "My shoulder would ache for a week."

Sherlock grunts and plugs his laptop into the lone outlet. Within minutes he's clacking away, so John sinks down onto the mattress, uncomfortable as predicted, and pulls off his shoes.

"I'll take this side," he says to the back of Sherlock's head, opting to lie back fully clothed. He doesn't wish to strip in the same room as his flatmate, and the only bathroom in the place is down two flights of stairs and at the end of a drafty corridor.

"Mmm." Sherlock is apathetic. It isn't as though he'll end up sleeping, anyway, thinks John, staring up at the water stained ceiling. "Why aren't you in your pyjamas?"

"I'm comfortable enough," John replies, wary. "Also didn't have the stamina to go all the way downstairs and back again. I feel like I haven't slept in a decade."

"I wouldn't look."

"Sorry?"

"If you wanted to change here."

"No, it's fine. Honestly." Heat climbs John's neck, flooding his face. He presses the heel of his palm to his cheek, mortified. "Night."

"Sleep well," Sherlock murmurs, still typing wickedly fast.

John swallows and closes his eyes.

**day 426.**

He wakes in weak sunlight the following morning, but the hazy dregs of sleep last only for a split second, because he is shocked into cognizance at the sight of Sherlock sprawled beside him, one bare arm draped across his midsection. Sherlock is breathing evenly, each exhale making the fine hairs on the back of John's neck stand on end. He stares at the plaster overhead, paralysed.

His mind unhelpfully conjures images of Sherlock shedding all but his pants, flicking off the lamp, slipping carefully into the empty half of the bed, and sinking into unconsciousness merely inches away. Any distance there had been between them has been obliterated in sleep; Sherlock's legs are pressed warmly against John's thigh, and John has shifted toward the center of the mattress, nearer to his bed-mate.

Several things are dreadful about this predicament, one being that John is pinioned between Sherlock and the wall, and thus can't slip discreetly out of bed, and the other being that heat is spiraling throughout his abdomen and lower, the backs of his knees are breaking out in sweat, and he feels faintly queasy.

John's left his wristwatch on the desk, but the slant of the sun through the curtains could estimably make it around eight-thirty in the morning. Well past the time either of them usually sleeps.

"Sherlock," John murmurs. "Wake up; we'll be late for our train."

Sherlock groans and stirs, rolling onto his back. "That crack in the ceiling," he rumbles, blinking. "It looks like a perfect replica of the country of Belgium."

"Git," says John. "Get up."

Sherlock does as he's told, swinging into an upright position. John's stomach twists at the sight of his bare torso.

"You never sleep when we're away. Sleeping is useless, John," John mimics, "The case won't solve itself."

Sherlock ignores this and reaches for the grey dressing gown folded on the rug, standing and pulling it on. "Going downstairs," he mumbles, collecting trousers and a button-down from his bag. "Be back shortly."

He vanishes into the hall beyond their door.

"Er," says John, "Okay."

**day 436.**

John bakes bread.

It's a skill he picked up in France during his youth, but one he rarely displays. Egg yolk, flour, oil, milk, and the barest touch of cinnamon are thrown together in 221b's only mixing bowl and John is stirring the batter when Sherlock clatters upstairs and stumps over the threshold, shaking rainwater from his upturned collar.

"Hello," says John, spooning dough into a greased baking pan. Sherlock peers bewilderedly at the domestic little tableau.

"Fancy a taste?" John brandishes the spatula. "There's only a very slight change you'll get salmonella."

"Not hungry," Sherlock grouses, paradoxically stepping forward to accept the batter covered utensil. He gives it a hesitant lick.

"Well?"

"Good."

"Ta," says John. "Haven't made brioche since '84."

"Didn't know you could bake."

"I thought you'd deduced it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and shucks off his gloves.

"Well, you're only human."

"Yes," Sherlock sighs, as though it will be his undoing.

John slides the pan into the oven, and glances toward the living room. "Got you something. Go look on your desk."

Sherlock crosses the room to investigate, a horizontal crease appearing between his brows, and finds a bottle of wine called _Scientific Method_.

"Like it?" John laughs, dusting flour from his jeans. "I noticed it when I was in the shops and couldn't help but buy the damn thing, it was so _like_ you."

"I," stammers Sherlock, "it's—yes. Very."

"It's a gag gift, obviously, but the wine's quality, so I thought I'd whip up a batch of French bread to enjoy with it. Not that you'll eat any, you skinny bastard, but I'm feeling optimistic."

Sherlock drops into his black leather chair and studies John, pink-cheeked and grave. "I expect I'll have worked up a bit of an appetite by the time it's through baking," he remarks.

"Oh," says John, feigning astonishment, "this _is_ unexpected."

**day 440.**

"I can tell you exactly how you're feeling."

"Harry, don't—"

"You know what true love feels like and you wish you didn't."

John falls silent.

**day 453.**

The whip comes cracking down on his exposed shoulder blades, and he makes a noise: half scream, half wretch.

"Shut the fuck up," says Frank Coolidge, serial torturer and rapist. He steps down hard on John's broken foot and John dry heaves everything he hasn't eaten in the past month all over the dusty floorboards. It's devastatingly cold and Sherlock is still nowhere to be found in this great, empty warehouse.

"Turn over."

John doesn't move.

"I said turn over! Little bitch," hisses Frank, kicking John onto his back.

John gasps as a shard of glass works its way into the lacerated skin on his back. The strip of leather smacks his rib cage, feels like a blade puncturing his diaphragm. But he doesn't say stop. He doesn't plead. He doesn't beg. He lays with his face to the beams overhead, jaw clenched, mute. If the plan is to get Sherlock to crack by abusing John, well, John's going to make certain it fails. He'll never cry mercy. Never.

However, after what must be merely fifteen minutes—but feels like a bloody lifetime—John begins to rethink. His skin is shredded and slashed, blood is in his eyes and mouth, and his flesh looks as though it has been run through a meat grinder. Frank is still whipping him, almost lazily now, scrolling through his iPhone with one hand and brutalizing John with the other. The pain is the sort that makes John wish he were dead and his eyes keep rolling back in his head, his body's desperate attempt at falling unconscious.

There's a roaring in his ears and technicolour pinpricks overtake his vision, but then a sudden kerfuffle breaks out above him. Shouting and cursing; the beams shake as Frank Coolidge is flung to the floor and kicked, once, twice, three times—a familiar voice, "Bloody hell, Sherlock, what are you doing?"—four, five—"Stop, it's illegal to harm a suspect! Sherlock!"

A final kick, and then: "If you had killed him, Mr Coolidge, you would not have made it out of this room alive." A hand brushes softly over John's carotid. "Pulse is dangerously slow, he needs an ambulance. For God sakes, Lestrade, stop gawking and call 999!"

A moment later John is engulfed in heavy wool. He passes out with the smell of cigarettes and Sherlock's cologne overwhelming his senses.

**day 454.**

John doesn't remember his first words upon waking. Probably something along the lines of, "Sherlock," and, "Oh, Jesus."

What he does remember is what he says after struggling into a sitting position and catching sight of himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. "I look like shite," he observes, and rubs wearily at his temples.

Sherlock is out of his chair in an instant, passing John a steaming mug of black tea and a bag of frozen peas for his head. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been thrashed all over with a strip of rough leather," John answers dryly. "So not very fucking well."

"Would've shot him through the eye if I'd been allowed," Sherlock mumbles, almost petulantly.

"Sherlock," John admonishes. "I won't you have turning into a barbarian for my sake." He presses the peas harder against his forehead and groans with relief.

"Bastard's safely behind bars, now."

"Then this _was_ a success."

"It wasn't," Sherlock barks, angrily flicking the belt of his dressing gown.

"Stop moping. This?" John gestures to his injuries. "It's all part of the job. You know that."

"Nevertheless."

"I'm fine."

"Looked like hell when we found you."

"I was alive, though, wasn't I? There's something to be jolly about."

Sherlock tucks a spare blanket round John's body with incongruously livid movements and draws back. "Sleep," he commands, as though John can fall into a doze at will. "Or Mrs Hudson'll have my head."

John gives him a long look. "I am glad you found me," he confesses, curling his knees beneath the blanket. "Would've spoiled the moment if I'd have had to beg for mercy."

Sherlock's Adam's apple jumps and he makes an aborted gesture with his hands. "You wouldn't have. Too stubborn."

"Mmm, wonder where I acquired that particular quality."

"Haven't the faintest."

**day 458.**

John finds an unopened jar of his favourite jam in the refrigerator that morning; second shelf from the bottom, sharing space with a plastic-wrapped pair of goat mandibles.

He stares, stares, stares.

Behind him, the kettle shrieks.

**day 462.**

Sherlock is pacing in the little garden beyond Mrs Hudson's back door. When he sees John watching, he comes to a stop and leans tiredly against brick.

"Don't act as though you're innocent," says John, stepping into the thin grass.

"What?"

"Lighter. Left pocket."

"Oh," says Sherlock. "I wasn't actually—I keep meaning to dispose of it, but I—"

John cocks an eyebrow. "Listen," he says, "You've been out two hours and it's getting chilly and dark. Come inside."

"Can't think in there. Can't bloody think anywhere."

"That what the cigarettes are for? Clarity of mind?"

"Initially, but," Sherlock scuffs his shoe along the cement, "proven ineffectual."

"I see."

"John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You're inconvenient."

"Am I?" John's heart twitches.

"Very."

"Why?"

"No logical explanation."

"Try me."

Sherlock stares at him, mouth twisted. "There's only so long a person can go on feeling like they're going to murder an entire population," he says finally, "if they don't—"

Vertigo yanks John into its clutches. He reaches for the window ledge, palms it. "Don't what?"

He needs it said aloud. An invitation, conformation, acknowledgment, consent. He needs it more than he needs air in his lungs—a hell of a lot.

Sherlock closes his eyes. Drops his Solent to the dirt. If not him, it's got to be John; it's _got_ be John—

"Look at me, Sherlock, it's very important."

Sherlock's lids flick open for the briefest of moments before John kisses him, and they slam shut again.

**day 469.**

"From the very start," Sherlock says. His fingers are buried in John's hair.

"Extraordinary."

"_Absurd_."

**day 480.**

An oatmeal jumper cast upon the sofa; aubergine silk on the floor. Mattress springs creaking overhead as two bodies sink blissfully onto one bed.

In the billiard room, Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard stand with the candlestick between them, forgotten.


End file.
